


Dog Days Of Hightown

by RavenGrey



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Asphyxiation, Canon Typical Violence, Carver's an ass, Choking, Dog Walker!Hawke, Eventual Fenris/Hawke, Fenris has social anxiety, Hawke bakes, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Day, NSFW, Pansexual Hawke, Past Anders/Hawke, Sebastian isn't in this because I never figured out how to get him lol, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist!Fenris, Varric and Hawke are Besties, Vet!Anders, both siblings are alive, dog walker au, relationship building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man currently pinning Hawke to the ground with a well-place knee to his chest is the most attractive person Hawke has ever seen and that’s saying something because he owns a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> There was a post on tumblr that had a bunch of aus and I really loved this one and now it's happening. oops. the dog walker au no-one asked for but now you're getting. edited by me, so if you find any mistakes please let me know so i can fic 'em c:

            The first thing he’s aware of is that his newest client is huge, nearly waist height and bulky with muscle. And _very_ excited to see him, if the whines and rump shaking are any indicator. He’s not _entirely_ sure if it’s excitement that has the mabari practically vibrating or if he’s about to be mauled by one of the biggest doggies he’s ever seen.

             He _really_ hopes it’s not the latter, because he just had his eyebrows done and he’d _hate_ for the world to be robbed of such beauty so soon. Also death by puppy wouldn’t look good on his grave and Carver would probably never stop laughing. The ass. 

             He’d been assured, multiple times, that she was _such_ a sweetheart and he’s just the _teeniest_ bit anxious about their first meeting. Usually when someone has to tell him that their dog isn’t going to take a chunk out of him, repeatedly, he gets a little worried that their dog is definitely going to take a chunk out of him. More than likely repeatedly.

             The house is an unnecessarily huge three-story, perfectly spaced between two other unnecessarily huge three-stories. And _of course_ , the lawn is well-manicured and dripping with flowers. He doesn’t spend much time (any time, really) in the nicer parts of the city so he feels out of place in his neon pink jogging pants and his grey ‘SUNS OUT GUNS OUT’ tank top.

             He runs his dog-walking business mostly out of Lowtown, so the neat and tidy houses freak him out a little. His own house is a lazy mess that definitely looks like it’s been lived in, unlike the cookie-cutter houses of the gated community the Du Puis family lives in.

            There’s a wide dirt driveway firmly separated from the neatly paved ‘U’ drive way that belongs to the three story, hidden almost entirely by unruly trees, and he wonders where it leads to while he digs around his back-pack for the keys he’d been given. The front yard is fenced in with a chest height brick fence.

             Effective _and_ practical. It’s not like he could hop this fence with relative ease. The front gate has a code, which he’d been told beforehand over the phone, but probably could have guessed eventually given the amount of wear on the buttons. 

            He opens the front gate without any trouble, trying his hardest to look innocent and not like he’s trying to rob the place. Which is hard to do, because in his youth this is definitely the kind of place that would have been high up on his list of places to rob.

            He gives the elderly woman walking her poodle in a jumpsuit that probably cost more than he makes in a week a pleasant wave and laughs to himself when she glares beadily at him and power walks away, knobbly fingers tight around the leash.

            He follows the curvy side-walk around the side of the house to the back yard, which is separated from the front yard completely by chain-link fence and is padlocked shut. He finds out where the dirt driveway leads to, a guest house nestled in the small copse of trees that litters the land a few hundred feet behind the main house.

             Of course there’s a guest house. _Of  freakin’ course_. There’s a black motorcycle parked in front. It’s a really nice bike, from what Hawke can tell, sleek and black and incredibly sexy. Not that he knows much about bikes. He drives a mini-van for fuck’s sake.

            He leans on the gate, arms dangling loosely down the other side with his chin propped on the top of the gate. He likes the little house, even if it does look like a murder shack. His new client, Lucy, dashes out from her shockingly small dog house and makes it to the fence in record time, paws skidding in the grass as she comes to a stop just before she would have crashed into the fence.

            “Well hello there, sweet girl, would you _look_ at you. If they aren’t careful I just might have to steal you away, you lovely thing.” He gushes, watching her jump around. She puts her paws on the fence, making it rattle, and thoroughly licks his fingers when he offers them. Her long, pink tongue lolls out of her mouth and she looks up at him eagerly

             There’s no growling so he unlocks the padlock and leaves it to dangle in the lock. He’d been warned that Lucy had the nasty habit of digging up the flower beds given the opportunity, so instead of unlatching the gate and giving her the chance to slip out, he hops it instead.

             Hawke grins happily at the wiggling giant as he drops down on the other side. He offers his fingers to be sniffed again. She snuffles at them, leaving another heavy coating of spit and dances excitedly around his feet as he bends down to scrub a hand through short, tan fur. She flops over onto her back and he scritches her white belly with a near manic smile on his face.

             Maker, he loves dogs.   

            The _next_ thing he’s aware of, now that it’s been established he isn’t going to be murdered by a dog, is his back hitting the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. His breath knocks out of him on sad little wheeze and he tries to suck in a breath through the spasming pain in his chest. He wedges his fingers under the man’s knee and lifts long enough to gulp in a breath before the crushing weight is back in full force.

             The man currently pinning Hawke to the ground with a well-place knee to his chest is the most attractive person Hawke has ever seen and that’s saying something because he owns a mirror.

            Lucy’s boofing away, skipping around excitedly while Hawke wheezes in a breath around the knee squashing his lungs. The fingers currently wrapped snuggly around his windpipe aren’t helping with the whole not being able to breathe thing, either, and they are definitely not helping with the rush of heat that goes zooming straight to his dick as little black spot dot his vision.

            His spluttering, muddled mind still takes a second to notice the intricate tattoos covering what appears to be almost every visible inch of this man’s skin. There are even tattoos on his adorably freckled chin and Hawke swoons a little on the inside. Okay, so he swoons a lot.

             Swoons while laying down and struggling to breath. It’s way easier than it sounds.

            “I might not like my neighbors all that much,” the man who just laid him out flat growls in a voice that does wicked, melty things to Hawke’s insides “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let a poorly dressed vagrant steal their dog.”

            Hawke can only stare at him, google-eyed, red in the face for two entirely different reasons. Lucy darts in to lick his eye and then the guy eases up enough for him to suck in a breath. He coughs and the knee on his chest pulls back enough for him not to die of oxygen deprivation. His coughs give way to soft, panting little gasps as a sweet rush of oxygen floods his lungs.

             The Dog-Guardian of High Town glares down his nose at him, devastatingly good-looking even if he does look like he’s considering dragging Hawke back to his murder-shack. Presumably to murder him. A fate he’s almost-but-not-quite alright with. He thinks of all the dogs that he won’t get to walk if he gets murdered and tries to clear things up.

            He can’t let every elven cutie with a sick undercut and enough tattoos to make Hawke’s heart trip murder him, he has a business to run, after all.

            “I’m Garrett, by the way, and I think you meant well-dressed, not to mention handsome, vagrant steal their dog. Which I’m not, by the way. Stealing their dog.” He pauses and looks up into narrowed eyes that can’t seem to decide whether they’re grey or brown.

            Grown? Brey? It’s like the two colors got mashed together and created a beautiful dark shade of green that Hawke doesn’t even know how to begin to describe. “ _Also,_ not a vagrant.” He’ll pester Varric about it later, Varric’s good with words.

            “I don’t think I’ll be sharing my name with a _thief_. I heard you _say_ you were going to steal the dog.” The pressure is back and Hawke grips the man’s upper thigh in a mild panic.

             It’s beautifully muscled and lean and if Hawke could breathe worth a damn he’d say something saucy but as it is he tries to think of something he can say to get this fantastic man off of him.

            Which is not something he’d ever thought he’d say, but here is with a knee in his sternum, dog slobber in his eye and the beginnings of an incredibly embarrassing erection.

             “It was a joke? And that’s a little harsh, don’t you think. Common courtesy and all that other non-sense.” He offers, feet scrabbling gently in the grass when Lucy grabs the laces of his right shoe and starts to tug. He wants to laugh, because the dog he’s supposed to be walking is currently stealing his poor, ratty tennis shoe while a stranger assaults him but he just doesn’t have enough air for more than a pitiful gasp.

             He imagines he’s starting to go red in the face and opens his mouth to explain that no, he isn’t stealing the dog, he’s the dog walker, please stop crushing him, it’s doing confusing things to his body and now is _really_  not the time for a boner.

            “Watch your hands if you wish to keep them.” The voice is frigid, calm despite the warning in his eyes and Hawke moves his hands clear and holds them to the side in a blatant ‘I surrender’ sort of way.

            “Watching my hands because I do in fact want to keep them.” He recites dutifully. His body isn’t listening, about the boner, and really it’s entirely this man’s fault, you can’t just appear out of the ethers and body slam a man and not expect him to get an erection.

             He thinks maybe the severe corners of the frowny man’s mouth twitch up, just a little bit, but then it’s gone and he’s being fiercely glowered at.

             At least not this man, he amends, praying to the Maker that he lets him up soon because it’s too early in the morning for utter humiliation. Humiliation should come sometime around noon, at the earliest, thank you very much, not 9 in the morning.

             “If you’re not a thief,” his lips twist into a slight snarl around the word and Hawke swallows hard as something that feels a little like liquid fire slips through him “then why did you state that you were going to steal the dog and then jump the fence?”

            Hawke doesn’t know what it is about being snarled at that’s such a turn-on, but he’ll be damned if it isn’t.

            “I was joking. Ever heard of one of those? Incredibly rare and hard to come by, I’ve been told.” There’s still a knee crushing the breath out of him so he adds with a put-out sigh “I’m the dog-walker.”

             He pats blindly for his backpack, moving like you would move when trying not to startle a wild animal, and pulls out his wallet with a bit of undignified wiggling. He flips it open and shows him his driver’s license and his business card. The one that has his name and number on it and says he’ll walk your dog if you pay him.

             There’s a pregnant pause in which intense, cool eyes flit from the cards back to Hawke’s sweaty face and then his lungs flood with sweet, sweet air as the man rises smoothly to his feet. His bare feet, tattooed feet. Hawke’s laughter rasps in his throat as he props himself up on his elbows and watches Lucy bounce around the yard, flinging his shoe as far as she can before running after it.

            “My apologies.” He offers, not meeting Hawke’s eyes with his arms crossed across his chest as they watch his shoe tumble across the grass. Hawke takes that opportunity to pull his tank-top down as far as he can, which honestly, isn’t very far.

 Lucy’s would-be savior is wearing a pair of red boxers and a loose, faded t-shirt that slips down the curve of his shoulder. His tattooed, delicious shoulder. Hawke’s really not sure what qualifies a shoulder as delicious, but this man’s shoulder is delicious. 

            “Love, I’d forgive you for just about anything.” He levels a dazzling smile at the guy who looks like he’s currently trying to make himself disappear and takes the calloused hand he’s offered. He winces a little at the ache in his chest and back. He dusts himself off and tries to ignore the feeling of wary, curious eyes on his skin as he pops his back and rolls his shoulders.

            “But if you’re really sorry,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth, trying to coax Lucy over with a treat he pulls from his bag. “I think a name would be a perfectly acceptable apology.”

            That gets him a huffy, begrudging chuckle and a quiet “Fenris.”

            Huh. _Fenris_. He rolls the name around in his head, lets his tongue curl around it and then offers him a hand “Garret Hawke, it’s an absolute pleasure.” 

            “I’m sure it is, seeing as I just spent the better part of 5 minutes with the majority of my weight on your lungs.” Fenris drawls, taking the offered hand with a small measure of hesitation. Fenris grips his hand firmly and then releases after one shake. “You already said that.”

            “Not that last bit.” Hawke tosses over his shoulder, trying to wrestle his shoe from Lucy while Fenris watches on with a dark eyebrow quirked. He doesn’t make any move to help, just watches Hawke struggle.  

            “Du Puis told me it’d be alright if I used the trail that runs through the woods, so fair warning, if you see an-”

            “Incredibly handsome man, walking a dog, he is not a poorly dressed, dog-stealing vagrant and I shouldn’t lay him out flat on his back.” Fenris interrupts drolly, checking his bare foot for dog poop and looking vaguely disgusted. Hawke flashes a devious smile at him.

            “I didn’t say _incredibly_ handsome. And that last bit wasn’t too bad.”    

            “Hrm.” If Hawke isn’t mistaken he’d swear that there’s color on Fenris’ high, olive cheeks. “Again, I apologize for the misunderstanding. Carry On.” And then Fenris just _leaves_ even though he’s glistening in the sun and smiling his most charming smile.

             He hops the fence with far more grace than Hawke had managed and crosses the distance between the fence and his home with long strides and disappears inside without looking back even _once_. Hawke hears the echo of the screen door slam and tries not to feel too disappointed.

            Hawke pouts a little as he finally extracts his poor shoe from Lucy’s mouth. “Think he forgot to give me his number?” He gets a string of ecstatic barks in response and braces a hand against the fence post while he jams his foot back in his shoe. His incredibly damp, dirt encrusted shoe.  

            “You’re right of course, love, he must have.” He clips the leash onto Lucy’s very nice, expensive looking leather collar “Who could say no to this face?”

            Turns out Fenris can say no to that face, because an hour or so later on the return jog by Fenris’ house he catches the object of his new and confusing affections just as he’s leaving.

             He had traded his boxers in for jeans torn at the knees and a dark red beanie. Same shirt, if Hawke’s not mistaken. He’s wearing black, scuffed boots and Hawke grins at him so hard he’s pretty sure his dimples are showing.

 _And I’m the poorly dressed vagrant_ he thinks, corner of his mouth hitching up. His mouth goes incredibly dry at the sight of him and he swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

            Hawke gives him a friendly wave, slowing from his steady jog only to have the man turn around immediately and slam the door shut behind him.

            “Huh.” Hawke frowns, feeling surprisingly hurt as he stares at the chipping paint of Fenris’ door.


	2. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris would almost swear his hand is still tingling from the feeling of having Garret’s calloused, hot hand in his and he gives it a disgusted look before throwing himself into his spot on the couch to wait out the bear of a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super short blurb in fenris pov

          “ _Fasta vas_.” Fenris hisses, cheeks burning as he drags an embarrassed hand down his face. He considers just crawling back into bed and trying to sleep away this cluster-fuck of a day, but he’s out of toilet paper (also paper towels, bread, shampoo, food in general) and he can’t let the crippling mortification currently crawling through him as he watches the cute beardy man walk the distance between his house and the back fence force him back to bed.

          Fenris ogles him from the window, blood pounding in his ears, hidden for the most part by his frankly hideous curtains. He still looks fantastic even after being outside for more than an hour and it makes him oddly angry.

          He would almost swear his hand is still tingling from the feeling of having Garret’s calloused, hot hand in his and he gives it a disgusted look before throwing himself into his spot on the couch to wait out the bear of a man. If he spends the vast majority of that time thinking about the wicked edge to the dog walkers smile, that’s his business.


	3. Humiliation and Coffee go hand in hand, apparently

            “Varric.” Hawke leans over the table to prod Varric’s stubbled cheek. He doesn’t bother to look up from his phone, despite the finger mashing his cheek against his teeth and keeps his face neutral when Hawke frowns pitifully at him.

            “Hmm?” Varric takes a sip of his iced coffee and doesn’t look at Hawke despite the insistent cheek poking. They meet for coffee pretty much every day, and like every other day Hawke is sipping on a horribly sweet concoction while telling Varric all about his day. To be fair, his stories have made Varric snort coffee out of his nose on more than one occasion. Like today for instance.

            “Varriiiic” The grown-ass man sitting across from him whines, stabbing his meaty finger into various parts of Varric’s face.

            “Use your mouth words.” Varric says patiently, discreetly snapping a pic of Hawke’s dopey, love-struck face.

             “He was gorgeous Varric, gorgeous! And his eyes, _oooh_ , his _eyes_ were the prettiest shade of green I have ever seen, I swear to the Maker. Did I mention the tattoos? Because tattoos. So many tattoos.”     

            “You mentioned the tattoos. Multiple times. You also mentioned his pretty pretty eyes. And I’m sure the guy who stomped your perky ass this morning had fantastic eyes, Dimples, but it’s just that well, I don’t care.”

            “You wound me, you really do.” Hawke replies archly, sucking sadly on his straw while Varric checks his twitter.

             “Did you actually walk the dog or did you spend two hours making eyes at tall, fair and mean?” He laughs at the exaggerated indignation that steals over Hawke’s face, eyes flicking smoothly to the point beyond Hawke’s shoulder to the door.

            Hawke flashes him a sly smirk before his face is overtaken by faux hurt. “How _dare you_ , of course I walked the dog! I may have spent an hour thinking about tall, fair and mean _while_ I walked the dog, but the dog got walked.”

             The grin Varric gives him hasn’t an ounce of pity, eyes fixed pointedly on a spot over Hawke’s shoulder. Something about the toothy quality of Varric’s smile makes him go cold all over

            Hawke goes stiff when someone clears their throat crisply behind him “He isn’t be right behind me. The Maker can’t hate me _quite_ that much.” Hawke doesn’t turn around to look because Varric’s face tells him everything he needs to know. He takes a smug gulp of his coffee and Hawke grimaces at him with desperate puppy-dog eyes.

            “Oh he does. He hates you that much and more.” Varric laughs meanly and gets up. “He’s all yours.” He dips his head in Fenris direction and ambles over to talk with Isabela at the counter.

            “We’re not friends anymore.” Hawke calls after him and Varric’s answering shout of “You love me!” makes him crack a smile despite the teensy tiny vein of mortification currently making his cheeks burn.

            “Your friend is right. The Maker definitely hates you.” Fenris says, voice low and raspy and it just isn’t fair. Fenris circles around; a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and Hawke levels an almost embarrassed smile his way.

            “How much of that did you hear?”

            “Enough.” Fenris’ lips twitch again, almost like he wants to smile and Hawke finds himself watching the slight curve of his lips with rapt attention.

            “How much is enough?” Hawke huffs on a laugh, setting his drink down and casually kicking out Varric’s empty chair. Fenris tilts his head to the side, considering, and sits down like he’s expecting someone to yank the chair out from under him.

            He drapes his bag over the edge of the chair and sits, back rigid and straight, across from Hawke with an uncertain look on his angular face.

             He doesn’t know this man, aside from the fact that his knee _really_ hurts when it’s digging into his sternum, but if he ever finds the person responsible for the hunted look in Fenris’ eyes, death will seem like a mercy when it comes. Well. That got a little dark, he thinks, a little surprised at himself.

            There’s a long, awkward pause in which Hawke can hear Varric laughing at him from the counter and then Fenris asks with a wicked glimmer of humor in his eyes and a perfectly straight face “Do you really think my eyes are pretty?”

            Hawke slaps both of his hands over his face and groans. He peeps through his fingers at the man sitting across from him and is promptly dazzled by the slight smile sitting awkward on his face.

            “I do.” He affirms, ears hot, and drops his hands away from his face. He scratches his fingers through his hair and gives Fenris a hopeful smile. “And since I’ve _all_ but confessed my undying love for you, let me buy you coffee? Just a tiny one.” Hawke adds before the no can finish forming on Fenris’ lips.

            Fenris considers him, eyebrows coming together in the middle to form the most adorable crinkle Hawke has ever seen. “I think that would be appropriate. Perhaps after that you can propose.”

            Hawke snorts a laugh “Sounds about right, although I usually wait ‘till the first date to break out the vows.” That gets him that ghost of a smile and a little of the tension bleeds out of Fenris’ shoulders. Not much, but enough to give Hawke hope that he hasn’t freaked the poor guy out on their first, official meeting.

            “A pity.” Fenris replies, voice dry. He’s watching Hawke closely and he has to beat down the urge to fidget under Fenris’ intense glare. Hawke hopes he isn’t glaring at him, maybe he just has angry eyebrows? but the look Fenris has leveled his way is making his insides turn to jelly.

             “What would you like?” He asks, trying not to beam and failing spectacularly.

            “Iced coffee, milk _not_ cream, 1 sugar. Please.” He adds as an afterthought and Hawke leaves him with a dopey grin and an eager “I’ll be _righ_ t back.” He does a stay put gesture while walking backwards towards the counter and bumps into Merrill on her way to the squashy arm-chair in the corner of the shop.

             Coffee goes everywhere and there’s a moment of shocked silence and then Varric is braying like a charismatic donkey and Isabella has to brace herself on the counter to keep from slipping to the floor she’s laughing so hard.

            It’s horrible and Merrill just laughs, flicking coffee from her fingers onto the front of his soaked tank top.

            “I’m definitely _not_ cleaning that up, kitten.” Isabela chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. A choked bark of laughter comes from Fenris’ direction and when Hawke finally gets the balls to look, Fenris has a tattooed hand slapped over the lower-half of his face.

            “You didn’t see that.” He jabs a finger in Fenris’ direction.

            “I do believe he saw.” Merrill points out, plucking his tank-top away from his chest and letting it suction back to his skin. Fenris dips his chin in a shy hello and she grins back, giving him a tiny wave of acknowledgement.

            Fenris holds his hands up in surrender and says with a slight smirk “I didn’t see that.”

            “He absolutely saw that.” Izzy calls gleefully from the counter, snagging a stack of dry towels from under the counter and tossing them in the general direction of the mess. She gets the mop bucket from the back and kicks it in Hawke’s general direction. Water sloshes all over his feet when it hits his shin and he gives Isabella the finger as he bends down to grab a towel.   

             “Sorry Merr-bear, I didn’t mean to,” He gesture hopelessly at the ground and himself and her coffee-drenched legs “ruin everything.”

            She pats the top of his head while he starts to the process of cleaning up. “You usually don’t.” She says in a mild tone, piercing Hawke to the core with her mean-ness.

             Isabela’s laughter takes on a wheezing quality and Varric is actually slapping his thigh. He huffs, affronted, and she beams sweetly at him before a mischievous smirk steals over her cute little face.

            “You’re all against me!” He groans, picking up ice cubes and dropping them into the cup Merrill offers him. She drops down to help him soak up coffee and then heads to the bathroom to clean up when only the mopping is left. She emerges 10 minutes later and curls up in her chair like cat, laptop balanced on the arm of the chair, her wet leggings balled up in a plastic bag on the table next to her.

            By the time he’s finished Isabela has taken pity on him and remade Merrill’s coffee and has Fenris’ coffee and his favorite sugary cluster-fuck of a drink ready at the bar. Varric lingers, chatting up Isabela and while they “discreetly” watch Hawke fuck up even more. It’s what friends are for, really.

            “You’re the worst.” Hawke says appreciatively, leaning over the counter to kiss her cheek.

            “Don’t I know it.” She purrs, dark red lips curved up in a teasing smile. He hands her a ten and takes Merrill her coffee before coming back for the other two.

             “You too.” He points viscously at Varric, who gives him finger-guns with ‘pew’ sounds, and heads back to Fenris. Who looks like he’s about to bust a blood vessel in his efforts to keep from laughing.

             There’s such a stark difference between the man who’d strangled him a little this morning and the one currently fighting back a smile. Hawke hadn’t really minded that first part and the second is downright addicting.

               “Sorry about that.” Hawke says sheepishly, pushing Fenris drink over to him and plopping into his chair. His legs are sticky and he hopes there isn’t coffee in his beard. Fenris takes a sip of coffee and then looks pleasantly surprised.

             “It was… Interesting. Thank you for the coffee.” He sounds politely strangled and Hawke appreciates the effort he’s putting in to not add to his humiliation. It’s after 12, at least. “There’s coffee in your- ah.”

            “Of course there is.” He cuts in smoothly, wiping his chin on his arm. Fenris’ eyes are glittering with amusement and Hawke levels a crooked grin his way.

            “Where’s your ‘ah’ and why haven’t I seen it?” His forehead meets the table with a meaty thud and Isabela follows up with “Careful kitten, you don’t have any brain cells to waste.”

             Fenris coughs to disguise his huff of laughter and Hawke lifts his head up and props his chin on the back of his hand. Fenris eyes are bright with mirth and his shoulders shake a little with suppressed laughter. 

            “Go ahead,” Hawke offers rather graciously; he thinks “I don’t think it’s possible to be anymore embarrassed at this point.”

            “Wouldn’t bet on that.” Varric calls out, looking up from his phone long enough to catch Hawke’s one-finger salute.

            “Better watch yourself Dimples, wouldn’t want Mama Hawke to know that you’re throwing around _obscene gestures_ in _public_.”

            “You wouldn’t.” He hisses, narrowing his eyes at Varric. Varric cocks an eyebrow at him. “You really would. You’d throw me to the wolves just like that, you _fiend_.”

            Fenris’ laughter just might be better than puppies and Hawke _really_ likes puppies. Fenris has his palm smashed against his mouth, like he’s trying to forcefully keep his laughter from escaping. It’s such a nice laugh too, low and crisp and warm. A little rusty, like he’s not used to laughing much. Hawke falls in love with it almost instantly. 

            Hawke shakes his head, grinning ear to ear, and sticks his finger into the mountain of whip cream that sits atop his drink. He pops it into his mouth and sucks it clean. His eyes jerk to Fenris’ when he makes a gruff, strangled sound.

            “I swallowed wrong.” He explains stiffly, voice raspy, and Hawke gulps quietly and then nods in understanding.

             “Hate when that happens.” He gets another scoop on his finger and tries to get it to his mouth before it slides off. He’s only marginally successful.

            “You have- Mmm. Ahn.” Fenris’ cheeks are red and so are his ears and Hawke scrubs an embarrassed hand down his beard. It comes away with whip-cream on it and he frowns sadly down at his palm.

            “I’m a mess.” He admits with a chuckle. “I’d shave if I didn’t look like a man-baby without it.”

             “You don’t know the half of it.” Isabela murmurs smugly from the counter and Varric grins and keeps taking pictures of his favorite goober with his new ‘special friend.’  

            “You’re a hot mess, at the very least.” Fenris agrees dryly and Hawke’s boisterous laughter is contagious. When he finally catches his breath, sides starting to ache, he flutters his lashes at Fenris and says “Do you really think I’m hot?”

            “I do.” Fenris’ smirk has an edge to it and it does terrible, fantastic things to Hawke’s insides. He wonders if Fenris is doing the thing with his mouth on purpose or if he’s accidentally seducing Hawke with his amazing mouth.

            That earns them an enthusiastic cat-call from Isabela and Hawke drops his head back with a frustrated groan. Fenris’ eyes flick quietly to the exposed line of Hawke’s throat and then back up to his parted lips.

             Varric just shakes his head and flicks a sugar packet at her, mentally cataloguing the way they can’t seem to keep their eyes off each other. Aveline’s definitely going to want a blow-by-blow account of the great Hawke laid low by a grouchy elf.

             Hawke jolts a little when Fenris’ next breath puffs lightly against his lips. He hadn’t realized how close their faces were and he goes as red as a cranberry in a matter of seconds. Fenris jerks back, the flush on his cheeks darkening, and clears his throat gruffly. Hawke’s skin feels tight and he bites the inside of his cheek.

            Fenris eyes are on his hands and so are Hawke’s. He watches Fenris toy with his half empty cup and can’t help but watch the flex and pull of tendons in the backs of his hands. 

            “I have…errands to run.” Fenris’ says finally after the silence reaches the point of awkward and just plows right through it into horribly awkward territory. “Things to buy.” He clarifies, getting to his feet and pushing in his chair. Hawke stands too and puts his hands on the back of his chair because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

            “I’d say I’m sorry I kept you, but well, I’m not.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

           “Thank you for the coffee. Again” Fenris offers him a tentative smile and starts leave with his eyes on his boots.

            “Anytime.” Hawke calls after him, almost tripping over himself to watch Fenris go. It’s an amazing view. Fenris tips his head in Varric’s direction when he passes him and is gone just as suddenly as he’d come.

            He sags back into his chair, the realization of how poorly he’d handled that setting in and leaving him crippled with mortification. “Oh no.” He whispers-groans, slapping both hands over his face and trying not to wail his dismay.

            “Smooth Garrett.” Isabela snorts, launching a swizzle at him. It bounces off the back of his neck and clatters to the floor.

            “Like crunchy peanut butter.” He agrees.

            “Think on the bright side! You’ve got a thing for the guy who opened a can of whoop-ass on you this morning _and_ you just revealed you’re dorkiest side to him. On your first date no less!” Varric adds cheerfully.

            “You’re almost as bad as Aveline.” Isabella tosses in, smirking widely as she flicks a few more swizzle sticks at him. They fly surprisingly far and one of the even sticks in his hair.

            “You take that back!” Hawke gasps, clearly offended. He plucks the coffee stirrer out of his hair and sticks it in his beard. Merrill laughs and tosses him a few more out of the container on the table, which he dutifully inserts into his beard “He’s never gonna speak to me again!”

            “You’re really quite charming Hawke,” Merrill offers, peeping over the top of her laptop at him “There’s a very good chance he will. I would.”

            “Thanks Merrill.” He offers her a smile and bends down to pick the first swizzle stick Isabella had tossed at him off the floor so it can join the growing collection in his beard.

            It’s as he’s carefully wiggling the last swizzle-stick in that his eyes fall on Fenris’ forgotten messenger bag.


	4. At Least It's Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris makes it about a block away before he realizes he forgot his bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapters in fenris' point of view are really really short because i'm not exactly sure how to write in fenris' pov???

            Fenris makes it about a block before he realizes he forgot his bag. He’d managed not to humiliate himself in public, hadn’t kissed the surprisingly charming man right on his generous mouth and had made a relatively clean getaway.  Except now he has to go back because all of his money is in that bag and he can’t buy toilet paper without money.

            He growls, smashing the heel of his palm against his eye so hard that when he pulls away his vision is black for a few seconds. He turns abruptly, startling the woman behind him into squawking and dropping her purse.

            He grunts in response and bends at the waist to pick it up and hand it over before darting around her. He passes a garbage can on his way back to the pleasant shop but can’t bring himself to throw away the cup. He gives it a disgusted look but keeps it for whatever reason.

            He has to steel himself before he pushes the door open. Even the gentle tinkling of the bell sets his nerves on end and his face feels like it’s burning as he steps inside.

            The dwarf’s eyes slide smoothly over him and then move back to his friend, who is still sitting in the same spot as when Fenris had left him. The grin on his face is most unsettling when he calls out to Hawke. The elf in the corner takes one look at him and a manic smile breaks out over her face. The barista is looking between the two of them with unchecked amusement.

            Hawke turns, casual as you please, towards Varric and then freezes. His amber eyes go comically wide and Fenris uses every ounce of will he has not to laugh himself sick as one of the many swizzle sticks Hawke has jammed into his beard shakes loose. His mouth is hanging open and Fenris watches with growing hysteria as a few more tumble free.

            “I forgot my bag.” He manages to say with an absolutely straight face. Hawke silently hands it to him, mouth still agape with horrified embarrassment. Hawke closely resembles a tomato and Fenris is fairly certain that he’s the only one who could pull the look off. “Thank you.”

            Varric coughs into his fist and Fenris slings his bag over his shoulder as Hawke stands there with at least 15 coffee stirrers in his beard.

            He’s proud to say he makes it two blocks before he has to stop to wheeze with laughter.


	5. Embarrassment With A Side of Swizzle-stick Beard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maker take me.” Hawke breathes, head in his hands for what feels like at least the fifth time today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter is short. really short. not even a chapter really, just a small blurb. longer chapters to come, just you wait

            “Maker take me.” Hawke breathes, head in his hands for what feels like at least the fifth time today. Varric’s actually on the floor, eyes scrunched up as he laughs a deep belly laugh. Isabella is hiccupping, head down on the counter and he can make out Merrill’s melodious laughter under Varric’s warm chuckles.

            “Why the Maker when you could have him?” Isabella says in silky purr just to watch Hawke go red. She ruins the effect a little with an involuntary hiccup and then he’s gasping with mirth right along with them, swizzle sticks going everywhere.


	6. Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke comes back an hour and a half later to find the brownie pan sitting on the porch, completely empty. Hawke falters, disbelief flitting over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm having way too much fun with this

             Hawke does the rational thing and bakes him his legendary ‘sorry I’m a fucking moron’ brownies the next night, after he spends a whole day thinking about how embarrassing he can be. He’s made them more times in his life than he cares to admit. He parks his van in the lot by the park that looks like it’s never been played in and walks the rest of the way to the Du Puis manor (because let’s be real, that’s what it is) with a pan full of brownies.

              It had been his dad’s recipe, saved for special occasions, such as when he’d put his foot solidly in his mouth with Mother and needed a fool-proof apology. His eyes sting and blur for an humiliating second.

              He’d also made them on birthdays; it had been a tradition, and one that Hawke had kept up after his dad had died. If it’s your birthday, or he feels that he’s made an ass out of himself, you get brownies.

            He sets the brownies down on a windowsill and plays with Lucy for 30 minutes or so before he clips the leash to her collar. His eyebrows crinkle in concern when he finds a small gash under her collar, but he figures she tried to wiggle under the fence so he puts antibiotic cream on it and massages it into her fur. He makes a note on his phone as reminder to let the Du Puis’ know to keep an eye on it and tucks his phone back in his pocket.

              He snags the brownies and starts towards Fenris’ sagging porch, Lucy tugging excitedly and darting around his feet. His stomach is jittery with nerves, because fuck what if Fenris doesn’t like brownies? Who the hell doesn’t like brownies? Probably fucking Fenris.

              It’s been a day since the Swizzle Stick Incident, he’s being paid to walk Lucy every other day, and his stomach is in a nervous jumble as he stands in front of the house.  

            He gnaws his bottom lip as he wonders if Fenris is even awake at this hour. Fenris’ porch has a chair on it and not much else aside from the clinging shells of cicada. The first step creaks loudly under his weight and he winces as he takes the rest of them. Fenris doesn’t have a doorbell so he knocks lightly.

            And then knocks louder immediately after because who could even hear that baby knock, but oh no, what if Fenris thinks he’s being _rude_? What then? What happens then? Hawke thinks in a mild (very mild, no need for concern) panic.

            Half a minute stretches by, a pleasant breeze cooling his nervous sweat as he stands on a near strangers porch with baked goods. He gives it a full minute before he gives up, shoulders slumping with either disappointment or relief, and starts to set the brownies on the tired looking chair.

              There’s a note on top of the tin-foil explaining why he’s getting brownies and Hawke is almost glad that Fenris hadn’t answered.

            Also incredibly disappointed because he’d spent the rest of his day thinking about his eyes and his smile and Maker this is bad.

            The sound of multiple locks being turned has him whirling around excitedly and Lucy’s leash gets tangled around his legs.

            So when Fenris cracks the door open to glower hatefully at the outside world, Hawke is struggling not to dump a tin of brownies on his porch. Fenris blinks owlishly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the cutest little frown Hawke’s ever seen.

            He’d planned to say something witty and maybe charming, to make up for the fact that Fenris has seen him with not 15, not 16, but 17 swizzle sticks in his beard but all he says is:

             "I bake when I get embarrassed. Or when I’m nervous.” And then shoves the brownies into Fenris’ hands and bolts off the porch with Lucy barking at his side. It’s not the most graceful thing he’s ever done and he barely avoids a face plant.

            He completely misses Fenris’ amused huff when he reads Hawke’s note, too busy with his daring escape to notice Fenris watching him with interest. Hawke jams his headphones in his ears and tries to ignore the insistent fluttering in his, well, almost everything.

             The note just says “SORRY” in all caps with 6 exclamation points and a smiley face. He begrudgingly accepts the brownies as an apology for waking him up at ass-‘o-clock in the morning and slinks back inside to have brownies for breakfast. 

            If he puts the note on his fridge using his only magnet, no-one has to know but him.

           

             Hawke comes back an hour and a half later to find the brownie pan sitting on the porch, completely empty. Hawke falters, disbelief flitting over his face. He puts a panting, happily exhausted Lucy away and walks back to Fenris’. He contemplates knocking, curious as to whether or not Fenris is currently in a brownie-coma or not.

            He waffles for a minute, sweaty and panting gently. He notices Fenris watching him from the window and smiles apologetically. He gives a wave and Fenris opens the door a few seconds later, looking sick. Hawke can see the regret in his eyes and knows that Fenris probably just ate the entire pan of brownies. He just knows. He’s been there.

            “Regret tastes like brownies.” He says instead of a greeting and the pinched set of Fenris’ mouth tells him that yes, yes it does.

            Fenris’ mouth twists and Hawke idly wonders if he’s going to throw-up “It most certainly does.” He murmurs “They were so good though.” That last part is said very quietly, but Hawke hears and tries to smother a laugh.

            “I’d say I’m sorry, but we both know this isn’t exactly my fault.” He snorts, wiping sweat out of his eyes while Fenris scowls balefully at the empty pan in his hands. He looks a little worse for wear and Hawke tries to figure out how the lean elf in front of him managed to eat 24 brownies in under 2 hours.

            “This is entirely your fault.” Fenris doesn’t look at him while he brushes crumbs off his too-big shirt.

            “I just wanted to apologize for the other day!” Hawke defends himself, resisting the urge to lick his finger and wipe away the smudge of chocolate on Fenris’ cheek. The first time he’d done that to Aveline she’d bopped him one of out of shock.

            “You apologized too well.” He snaps back with no real fire and Hawke takes an unconscious step back when Fenris’ face tinges green.

             “You’re a grown man; you should know when to stop eating brownies.” He can’t help point out and then Fenris is huffing, readying something churlish to hurl back at him no-doubt, only to have his witty rejoinder interrupted by a pitiful burp.

            “I’ll give you that.” He settles on ruefully, leaning heavily on the doorframe.

            “You should go lay down.” He recommends with some pity. His brownies are damn good. Too good. Dangerously good. He’s a danger to himself and others.

              ““Give yourself an hour or three and maybe you won’t feel like you’re on the brink of death.”

            “I have work in 30 minutes” Fenris tells him bluntly and Hawke winces.

              ““You’re doomed. But what a way to go.”

             Fenris cracks a teeny-tiny smile and Hawke’s heart does a back-flip. “Indeed.” He pauses “Don’t do it again. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

             “Wiener.” He shouts at Fenris’ retreating back and he gets the finger in return. He regrets not inviting him to Sunday dinner the whole way back to his car.


	7. Dirty Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What he tries not to do is think about Fenris’ fingers digging in to the soft skin of his throat. So of course it’s the only thing he can think of. He swallows and feels the ache of it in the faint bruises littering his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a dirty bird with zero chill an i won't be apologizing. edited by me, so please please let me know if anythings wrong.  
>  this chapter is nsfw work and you can skip it if you want because it's not really relevant to the story.

            So of course it’s the only thing he can think of. He swallows and feels the ache of it in the faint bruises littering his neck. The lingering bruises on his chest hurt just as bad, but the one’s on his throat are the only ones he can think of.

            They span the underside of his chin, a thumbprint bruise on one pulse point and a smudge of dusky purple where Fenris’ index finger had dug in on the other. His beard hides those a little, but the 3 others littering the column of his throat are clearly visible and the number of looks he’s received today is in the double digits.

            It hadn’t helped that each and every time he’d caught his reflection in the mirror his throat had gone tight and his breath had done that obnoxious little hitch thing. It had been a weird day, all the way around.

            He’d just met the guy but he hadn’t been able to get him out of his head. He’s starting to feel a little creepy, to be honest. Two days in and he’s already fantasizing about-

            Well. His thoughts aren’t exactly clean, let’s leave it at that. He’s done a lot of shit okay? like, a lot of shit, but somehow he’d completely missed choking.

            “Maker’s saggy left butt-cheek.” He groans tiredly, dragging his hands down his flushed face. He’s getting hard just remembering the feeling of Fenris’ fingers on his skin and it’s fucking embarrassing. He’s fucking embarrassing. Isabela and Varric had reminded him of that about every 20 minutes or so, Isabela with filthy, filthy suggestions and Varric with pictures.

             Of him. Staring dopely at Fenris with whip-cream in his beard, clearly taken by Merrill because she’s actually the devil. Of Fenris looking at him with surprisingly warm eyes and a quirk to his mouth. The pictures were easily the worst of the two and Hawke doesn’t think he’d gone more than hour without either going pink or thinking about how close they were in the last picture Varric had sent.

            He jumps about a foot off the ground when Who Let The Dogs Out starts blaring from his phone. He checks it with an annoyed huff. And promptly has the strong urge to die of mortification because the first picture is of him with a beard full of multi-color coffee stirrers and he’s almost 100% sure he knows what the next one is.

            It finishes sending and then he’s staring at a close up of Fenris’ face as he comes back into the shop. Dark black eyebrows are raised towards his hair line, his lips are parted slightly in surprise, flash of a pink tongue just visible behind white teeth and Hawke has to remind himself to breath.

            The next few he gets are in rapid succession, Fenris’ nose crinkles, his lips curl, curl UP! they curl up, oh joyous day and then Fenris is smiling, begrudgingly, at him before he gets his face back under control. But that smile, Maker, that _smile_ does dangerous things to him.

            He types out ‘did u fuckin take burst photos of Fenris u turd???’ even though he’s saving the ones that aren’t blurry (okay so he’s saving all of them he’s fucking creepy alright?) on his phone and gets the prompt reply of ‘Why yes. Yes I did.’ accompanied by a smug selfie of Varric with his reading glasses on.

            He rests a hip against his counter and listens to the joyous barks and yips coming from the backyard, idly wondering which squirrel is being terrorized today.

             His forehead wrinkles in thought and he scrunches up his nose, considering the pictures he’d just saved to his camera roll. He really shouldn’t. It’s weird and invasive and _he really shouldn’t_ but he keeps them. All of them.

             Because they’re excellent and he has zero chill and he lets his dogs in before heading towards the shower.

            It’s after his shower, sprawled on his bed with the door locked that he gives in to the urge that’s been dogging him all day. The lights are off and his blankets are pooled around his feet as he edges his hand into his pants and rubs at the base of his dick. He bites his lip, eyes shuttering closed as licks of heat spread out through his hips.

            He groans softly, a desperate little puff of breath that makes his face burn when he licks a stripe up his palm and grips himself. The first stroke is rough and jerky but he groans quietly.

            He pumps himself, thumb swiping over the bead of pre-come that wells on his head and smears it around. It takes him no time at all to get to the point where his erection tents his sweat pants, straining against the soft gray fabric and leaving small wet spots where his leaking dick rubs against the inside.

            He thinks of Fenris’ mouth, of his eyes, the dip of his collarbones, his shy smile and his hands, Maker those hands, and he touches himself. Wraps his free hand around his throat, digs his fingers into the still-healing bruises and _squeezes._ His next breathe wheezes, his needy moan barely scraping out of as he locks his fingers around his throat.

His shout is strangled when he comes, but it’s definitely Fenris’ name he gasps as streaks of white coat his hand and his vision spots. It’s after his vision clears and he’s shamefully wiping his hand on a dirty t-shirt that he hears someone politely clear their throat on the other side of his door.

            “You _dirty_ bird.” Varric says through the door after the most awkward pause ever in the history of ever. “I’m here if you need to talk.” He adds in a gently condescending tone. Hawke wails softly in despair and throws his arm over his eyes.


	8. Mostly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke’s not sure how you toss a salad like you don’t give a single fuck, but Isabela is currently managing it with her usual finesse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a sucker for team bonding. absolute sucker. comments might encourage me to write faster *nudge nudge wink wink low mournful scream*

 

            “You like a boy,” Varric starts, moving one of Hawke’s many dogs onto his lap so there’s room on the couch for his feet “so you try to kill him with brownies. You don’t invite him to dinner and a movie, _no_ , you go straight for the kill. When can we expect the wedding? Ooh! Can I be the Maid of Honor?”

            “He’s a _man_ , Varric, but he’s right you know, third date, t _hen_ you put out darling.” Isabella adds ever-so helpfully from the kitchen, where she’s haphazardly tossing a salad.

             Hawke’s not sure how you toss a salad like you don’t give a single fuck, but Isabela is currently managing it with her usual finesse. He throws a cooked spaghetti noodle at her and she squawks when it hits her right in the chest and sticks.

            Isabella is in charge of only the salad, because the last time Hawke let her near anything else she’d set his kitchen on fire. Sunday night dinners at his place usually end in blood and tears, but the heathens he calls his friends swarm his house every Sunday without fail.

             “Quite the man.” Merrill tacks on helpfully; speaking mostly to Aveline who is helping her pull plates down from the top cabinet and gather knives, forks and cups. She drops one of his mismatched plates with a sad “oopsie”, only to have Aveline catch it before it can even hit the ground. Merrill claps delightedly and Hawke gives her a congratulatory whoop.

             His kitchen’s a little on the small side for 4 people, but they’ve been doing this so long that they stay out of each-others way. Mostly. He’s learned how to stay out of Aveline’s way because her elbows should be classified as weapons of mass destruction. He pops the garlic bread in the oven while Aveline pulls mismatched cups out.

             “He sounds rude, from what I’ve heard.” Aveline says firmly and then pauses for a few seconds before adding incredulously “How badly did you screw up your first meeting that you needed the brownies?”   

            “My brownies aren’t the equivalent of sex and he wasn’t _rude_ and I didn’t screw up that bad!” He starts to object.

            “The lady doth protest too much.” Isabela and Varric chant in perfect sync and then Varric actually gets up so they can high-five right after. A little terrified shiver runs up his spine and he turns puppy-dog eyes on Aveline, who gives him a ‘suuuure’ look. 

            “It’s always so creepy when you two do that.” Merrill muses absently, kneeling down to pet one of his dog with light fingers. David responds enthusiastically and almost knocks her over with his joyful rump-shaking. Her eyes glitter excitedly as she strokes the massive basset hound from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail.

             Merrill is definitely a cat person. She’s got at least 4 that he knows of, but it’s been a week or so since he’s been to her home in the Alienage, so she might have more by now.

            “You didn’t even meet him, Aveline.” He’s not really sure why he’s getting huffy over the near-stranger who was admittedly a little rude, but here he is. Picking lettuce up off the floor and defending Fenris.

            “I don’t need to meet him to know that body-slamming someone is rude, Hawke. Not to mention it’s not the best way start to a relationship.” They leave the plates and things piled on the table and head into the living room, the droopy mutt close behind. Aveline sinks into his chair and Merrill perches on the arm, David staring lovingly up at her while he lazily shakes his tail.

            “Had one too many start that way, eh Ave?” Varric asks, covered in dogs, and Aveline arches a golden-blonde eye brow.

            “And end that way.” She adds, completely deadpan. Varric’s dramatic gulp is loud and it gets a laugh out of everyone. Pepperoni, easily the loudest dog that owns him, starts barking and Varric rubs the chihuahua’s ears until he shrill barks quiet down to a squeaky growl.

            He drains the spaghetti and adds a few tablespoons of olive oil to the obscene amount of pasta he’s just made.

            “You’re all awful, you know that?” He says as someone knocks on his door, setting all of his dogs to barking. Isabela flutters her thick black lashes at him and Varric toasts him with his beer. Aveline smirks and Merrill digs the remote out of the chair with a sly grin.

            “That’ll be Anders. I’m surprised he could make it.” He wipes his hands on his apron and dumps 3 jars of Prego into a pan. He walks dogs; he’s not fucking Gordon Ramsay.

            “The things you do for love.” Isabela gushes sarcastically and Hawke hip checks her out of his way. She ‘oofs’ grumpily and mops at the booze he’d splashed all down her shirt.

            “Shut it, Bela.” He pointedly ignores that jab, even though she looks smug while she mops at her tits. He likes Anders, he really does, and for a time he thought he _liked_ Anders. But he had learned early on in their fledgling relationship that if life were a video game he’d be one of Anders side-quests, something you could do if you wanted to and had t he time.

            They’d broken up after only a few months. It had been weird at first, but they’d moved past it. Mostly. Sometimes shit gets awkward real fast but they’ve developed a method of coping. They basically just don’t talk about it. It’s not a very good method, he admits.

            “The salad is mixed. Go sit your perky arse down.” He says firmly and watches as she mockingly salutes him, fixes herself another drink and heads into the living room. She jams herself between Varric and the arm of the couch, despite the perfectly good, empty love seat on the other side of his chair.  

             He can almost hear the last few shreds of his dignity being ripped into itty-bitty pieces as Varric fills Aveline in on his romantic escapades and he gets the door. Anders looks exhausted, like he almost always does, but he smiles when he see Hawke in the apron Bethany had gotten him for his birthday.

             It’s says ‘World’s Okayest Cook.’ It matches his ‘World’s Okayest Brother’ shirt.

             He’s wearing his vet clothes, clearly just off of work, and he smells. Not enough to be off-putting, but enough. His hair is gathered into the laziest man-bun Hawke has ever seen and his cheeks are rough with stubble.

             “Do I want to know why you smell like a goat?” He asks, accepting Anders hug despite the lingering farm animal smell. Ander’s tired frown is telling. Anders is too thin and the weird mother-hen urge that has governed him all his life rears its ugly head.

             It’s a good thing he made like, 6 boxes of spaghetti because Anders is taking the left-overs back to his crappy apartment in Darktown. Darktown! for the Maker’s sake.

            “You _really_ don’t.” Anders says, crinkling his nose as he sniffs at his shirt. He shrugs with an ‘eh what are you gonna do’ face.

            “Spare me the gory details, glad you could make it.” He ushers Anders inside and helps him shrug out of his jacket. He plops down on the couch on the otherside Varric, who barely gets his feet out of the way in time. Hawke thinks he may fall asleep immediately, eyes slitting closed and head tipping back, but to be fair his couch is very comfortable.

            Hawke heads back into the kitchen and pulls the mozzarella and grated parmesan out of the fridge and drops them on the counter. He hears Anders lazily ask where Bethy and Carver are and calls from the kitchen; “Bethy had ‘so much fricking-fracking’ homework and Carver’s just too good for us, I’m afraid.”

             He says that last part mournfully and Anders snorts unkindly.

             He turns the sauce off and wipes away the splatters from where it had started to bubble. He pulls the garlic bread out of the oven and sets it on one of the pot-holders on the dining room table.

            “I think it’s sweet.” Aveline informs him firmly, off topic, having decided to forgive Fenris the man-handling given the situation. Anders grunts curiously, stretching like a cat and rocking onto his feet. Things pop. He snags a piece of bread and crams most of it in his mouth, despite the fact that it’s fresh out of the oven.

            “Regretting that yet?” He asks pleasantly as Anders eyes water. He chews, cheeks bulging, and continues to look at Hawke with interest. He just shakes his head and brings the rest of the spaghetti things.

            “Hawke’s arse over tits in love with a pissy elf who thought he was stealing a dog.” Isabella says, ever-helpful, and Anders eyebrows make a break for his hairline.

            “ _Was_ he stealing a dog?” Hawke’s not sure how Anders managed to say that cattily around a mouthful of bread. Isabella’s eyes light up with an unholy glee and Varric’s grin would terrify a lesser man. 

            “I _wasn’t_.” He tells no-one in particular because Varric’s already recanting the grand tale while everyone gets spaghetti and settles in to watch a movie. “This time.”

 


	9. It Lives

           “It lives.” Hawke notes cheerfully. It’s been a few days since the brownie-incident and this is the first time Hawke has seen him since. For a bit there he’d been genuinely worried he’d actually killed him. To be fair, it is obscenely early for most people and he’s not sure why he expected Fenris to actually be up.

           “It thinks you might actually be the devil.” Fenris looks like he’s considering lobbing his coffee mug at Hawke’s head. He’s pretty sure the only thing that saves him from that fate is that there’s still coffee in it.

           “How was work?” He keeps his face straight even though the rest of him definitely isn’t. It should be illegal for someone to look that _good_ when they’re pissed off.

            Fenris squints at him, dark circles under his eyes, and takes a gulp of coffee. “If this wasn’t my favorite mug I would hurl it at your pretty little head.”

           Hawke’s bark of laughter ends in a startled yelp because Fenris lobs a half-eaten honey bun at him. He throws an arm up fast enough to keep it from splatting against his face, but it sticks to his hairy arm for a few seconds and leaves a slimy patch after he shakes it off.

           “I already ate, but thanks.” He says, nose wrinkling at the thick white icing smeared on the side of his arm. He tries to get to the dirt-covered honey bun before Lucy gobbles it up, but he only manages to save the wrapper. He huffs dejectedly as she horks it down and Fenris smirks at him.

            He turns his arm and swipes his tongue over the sticky mess, wrapper crinkling in his fist. Cloying sweetness spreads out over his tongue and it takes a couple licks to get all of it. He wipes his slobbery arm on his shirt and doesn’t notice the way Fenris tracks each flick of his tongue.   

            “Thought you looked hungry.” Fenris offers, eyes glittering from under heavy lids as he takes a glug of coffee.

           “Thanks so much.” He replies, stepping forward and slapping the empty wrapper in Fenris’ hand, who immediately lets it float down to settle on his porch. Lucy tries to dart forward but he tightens his hold on the leash and takes a few steps back. Hawke shakes his head, smiling crookedly. Fenris slumps further in his chair, coffee mug resting on his chest so he has to use the minimal amount of effort to raise it to his mouth.

           “You're welcome.” He pulls another honey-bun from somewhere and opens it.

           Hawke snorts. “Enjoy your breakfast.” He blows him a goodbye kiss and starts walking, because he’s on the job thank you very much, and now is not the time for flirting. No-sir-e-bob.

            Fenris takes a bite and replies pointedly “I was.”

            Hawke turns, walking backwards along the overgrown path. “Oh puh-lease. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t find me utterly charming.”

           Fenris opens his mouth only to watch Hawke break into a fast jog while cramming his headphones in his ears and laughing.

 


	10. Pancake Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re making him breakfast.” Varric drawls in disbelief from where he’s sprawled sleepily on Hawke’s bar. It’s early, so Varric’s huffy, but he’d dragged his sorry arse to Hawke’s house for pancakes, just like every other Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehehe :{)

 

             “You’re making him breakfast.” Varric drawls in disbelief from where he’s sprawled sleepily on Hawke’s bar. It’s early, so Varric’s huffy, but he’d dragged his sorry arse to Hawke’s house for pancakes, just like every other Tuesday.

             The sun hasn’t even risen yet and Varric is in his pajamas. The bottoms have little wiener dogs on them and his top is a silky red with his initials embroidered over his left chest. Bethany’s dressed for the day in a lavender sweater embroidered with daisies, leggings that are ripped at the knee and black combat boots.

             He’s _pretty_ sure the sweater is one of his, but the last time he’d called her out on her sweater theft he’d woken up to find half his beard missing. Merrill had put up missing posters.

            “It took months, _months_ , for you to get around to inviting me over for Pancake Tuesday.” He adds accusingly, giving Bethany a lazy smile when she refills his cup of apple-juice while shoving bacon into her mouth.

             “Thanks Sunshine.”

            “I didn’t invite him over.” He defends himself, flipping a medium-sized blueberry pancake, 2 chocolate chip and the bacon. “There’s going to be extra pancakes, despite the fact that you bottom-less pits try to eat me out of house and hold every Tuesday, and I’m going to need someone to take them off my hands.”

            Bethany makes grabby hands because her mouth is full and Hawke gives her an arch look.

             “You’re already getting pancakes!” He laughs, plopping a beautifully golden specimen on her plate. He pours 4 more near perfect circle of batter into the griddle and steps away from the lightly popping butter to take a glug of his morning protein shake.

             It’s supposed to be _incredibly_ healthy, so of course it tastes like dirt. He has every intention of washing it down with a small mountain of pancakes. Sweet, sweet pancakes.

            “But I could be getting _more_ pancakes, is the thing.” Bethy points her fork at him, a neatly cut wedge of pancake speared on the end.

            “She’s got a point.” Varric chimes in; ever the voice of wisdom and Hawke uses her momentary distraction to lean over the bar to steal the food off her fork.

            “You get pancakes every Tuesday. He ate honey buns. _For breakfast_.” He gives a faux shudder and leans out of her reach when Bethany tries to smack him.

            “Hey!” She gasps sharply, pulling her plate closer to her chest. The pout she gives him is adorable. “Stealing food from a starving college student, how low you’ve sunk Garrett Hawke!” 

            “Pshaw. Starving my perfectly toned arse. I feed you.” He flips the next pancakes, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.

            “Did you actually just say ‘pshaw’?” Bethy’s ‘are you shitting me’ look could rival Mother’s, easy-peasy.

            “Psh- _aw_.” He says right before he chugs the rest of the grass green shake.

            “You’re such a dork. It’s no wonder you have to woo him with your cooking.” She snorts, draining the last dregs of her coffee and getting up for more.

            “Trying to fatten him up so he can’t do a runner.” Varric agrees, licking his syrupy fork clean and pushing his plate out for more pancakes.

            “I’m not wooing anyone.” He objects, laughing despite the heat in his cheeks. “And Varric, you just, you shut up, I should let you starve.”

            “You’d be baking me cookies by lunch, honey-bunch.” Varric grins sweetly at him and Hawke plops another stack on his plate. He flicks a slice of butter at him and Varric catches it. They both break out in peals of laughter while Varric stares confusedly at the butter in his hand.

             “Huh.” He mutters and turns his hand to drop the rapidly melting square of butter on top of his pancake.

            “Oh _pshaw_ , brownies and pancakes in the first week, you’re pulling out all the stops. Geeze, what’s this guy look like Varric?” Bethy asks while Varric wipes his hand clean.

            “He has the prettiest eyes.” Varric gushes, propping his chin up under a fist and fluttering his lashes at her. Hawke hurls a handful of blueberries at him while Bethany laughs.

            “He does!” Hawke replies hotly, grin splitting his face ear to ear. She snags a blueberry and pops it into her mouth with a knowing look.

            “Just let him know that if he hurts you they’ll never find the body.” She adds sweetly, flicking a blueberry at him that bounces off his forehead and gets gobbled up by the horde of dogs milling around his feet.

            “Where’s Carver?” Hawke asks with a disdainful sniff instead of dignifying that last thing with a response. The little turd is usually front and center on Pancake Tuesday, but he hasn’t seen hide nor grumpy hair of his darling little brother in about a week or so.

            “PUMPING iron.” Bethany does a downward flex and puffs out her cheeks. Varric guffaws around a mouthful of pancake and swallows thickly.

            “Getting RIPPED.” He flexes his biceps and kisses each of them lovingly while Bethany snickers from behind her hand. “Mostly he’s just so far up his own arse he’s lost his way and can’t get back out.”

            Hawke opens his mouth, but snaps it shut with a quiet snap of teeth when he can’t come up with a good enough defense. Carver has been almost unbearable since he’d joined The Templars last fall when he’d started school with Bethy. Even mother thinks so, and getting her to admit that her children are less than perfect is like pulling teeth. From a cranky dragon. Who thinks you suck.

            “He’s been… difficult.” His sister admits daintily, mouth unhappy and pinched. Her eyes look tight and Hawke frowns at his scratched counter top. Carver’s new frat, which is what it is despite his many, oftentimes loud objections isn’t exactly tolerant.

             In fact, it’s less than tolerant, which is very bad when your brother’s pansexual and your sister likes women. Their last family dinner had ended with Carver getting a face full of mashed potatoes after he’d made Bethany cry.

            He heaves a sigh and rips up Varric’s next pancake while looking him dead in the eye. He feeds a piece of it to each of the dogs.

            Varric gasps, hand going to his heart, and looks at Hawke with betrayal writ clear across his face. “I only speak the twruth.”

            “You are so full of shit. Just brimming with shit. ” But he blesses Varric with more pancakes because he’s not wrong and he can’t blame him for having eyes.

            “Shirt. Put it on a shirt!” Bethany gasps when her giggles finally die down and Varric groans, because his next birthday present has been decided. He has a shit-ton of shirts that just have random Hawke quotes on them. He wears all of them and often, to Hawke’s delight and the general confusion of strangers.

            “Done.” Hawke agrees excitedly, searching for his phone among the pancake fixings and making a note. He has a long list of horrible shirts he’s gonna have made, each with quotes more outrageous than the last.

            “You’re a monster.” Varric points an accusatory fork at him, realizing too late his mistake.

 


	11. Baking Hell (Every Bit as Delicious and Sinister As It Sounds)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You shouldn’t have done that. You just entered baking hell.” Hawke cackles with the widest, most friendly grin Fenris has ever seen. He’s trying to untangle the leash from his ankles without letting go and Fenris watches him struggle while he fishes a pancake out from under the cling wrap

 

            “What are you playing at?” Fenris says, eyeing the towering stack of pancakes covered with saran wrap. They look delicious, he admits reluctantly and his mostly empty stomach snarls in agreement. He grimaces, stomach grumbling in protest of the half a piece of toast he’d had for breakfast and glares at Hawke’s suspiciously innocent face.   

            “I’m not playing at anything.” He replies blithely, looking at Fenris with honey eyes and a slight smile. A dimple showing. Fenris kind of hates him. And maybe he wants to kiss him, but that’s completely beside the point and a little creepy, considering they’ve only known each other about a week.

             It’s all very confusing and he’s tempted to just go back inside, but if he misses leg day Vallen might just kill him. “No-one’s this _nice_ without an ulterior motive.” His lips curl around the word nice and he finishes bluntly;

            “What’s yours?”

            Hawke, the absolute bastard, looks hurt for a few seconds “No ulterior motive. Pinky promise.” He pauses, shivering just the teeniest bit when Fenris gives him the most unimpressed look he can muster and finally adds in an embarrassed tone “You looked thin.”

            “I looked thin.” He repeats flatly and Hawke goes a charming shade of red under his dark stubble. The towering man shifts from foot to foot, staring down at his neon pink laces. Fenris scrutinizes him, lips pursed with his arms crossed over his chest. Hawke looks up and meets his eye for fleeting moment and Fenris understands what all the shitty romance novels he reads in secret are on about.

             He’d rather not eat pancakes off the ground, he supposes, and the ear-to-ear smile that splits Hawke’s face is almost worth the literal hell Aveline is going to put him through for missing his work out for pancakes and a cute man.

            “Thank you.” He grunts, lifting the pancakes out of range of the Du Puis mutt, who’s currently trying her best to send Hawke crashing to the ground in her haste to get to the pancakes.

            “You shouldn’t have done that. You just entered baking hell.” Hawke cackles with the widest, most friendly grin Fenris has ever seen. He’s trying to untangle the leash from his ankles without letting go and Fenris watches him struggle while he fishes a pancake out from under the cling wrap.

             They’re still warm and his stomach gurgles excitedly.

             He sniffs it before he takes a small bite and watches Hawke go tumbling to his knees with a shout. He thinks it might be because he hasn’t eaten anything other than junk food in a few days, but it’s the best thing he’s ever put in his mouth.

             He doesn’t even like blueberries and he’s got half the pancake crammed into his cheek while Hawke is blinded with dog kisses. He swallows thickly, just in time for Hawke to emerge from the surprise dog pile and see him standing there stiffly holding the plate.

            “Baking hell?” He repeats, inconspicuously wiping spit from the corner of his mouth while Hawke untangles the leash. There’s grass in his hair and his cheeks shine with dog slobber.

            “Baking hell.” Hawke affirms, smiling widely.

            He has two. Two fucking dimples, Fenris learns when Hawke looks up at him from under a fall of long, dark lashes. What a fucking asshole.     

            “I bake a lot, like, a lot a lot and you just became my latest victim. Mwaha.” Hawke’s villain laugh is lacking and Fenris has to struggle not to crack a smile.

            “Oh no. Free baked goods. The unmitigated horror. Did you just actually say ‘mwaha’?”

            “Oooh, big word. You say that now, but you’ve only just entered baking hell. And I absolutely did.” Hawke rocks back on his feet and flashes those dimples again and Fenris forgets how to breathe for a second or six.

            “Dick.” He says crisply, praying to the Maker that Hawke doesn’t hear how breathless he is.

            “Bring on baking hell.” He leans on the porch railing, a challenging smirk on his face. He’s not sure why he’s letting a stranger feed him up, but the thought of not seeing Hawke again makes something twist in his chest.

            “Oh I will.” Hawke takes a step towards him, the only thing separating them the ancient railing, and Fenris ignores the excited fluttering in his belly in favor of giving Hawke a pancake hat. The feeling had shocked him and he’d reacted without thinking, but the way Hawke’s jaw drops is almost worth the loss of a pancake.

            “Bring it on sasquatch.” He turns, casual as you please, and heads back inside. He hears the muffled thud of the pancake sliding off Hawke’s head and doesn’t lose his shit as he opens his door.

             It’s a close thing. His lips are twitching with the effort of not laughing. His face is hot and his heart is thumping hard in his chest.   

            He hears a startled blurble of laughter. “Words hurt Fenris, and I intend to.” Hawke calls after him and Fenris uses every ounce of will power he has not to turn around and drink in the mirth on Hawke’s face.

            “Bring. It. On.”


	12. Enter Baking Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke brings it. Some would say he brings it on.

           Hawke brings it. Some would say he brings it on. Varric’s napping in one of the rocking chair on the back porch when he gets home that night, Pepperoni in his lap and a sea of dogs dozing at his feet. Hawke takes an obscene amount of pictures from various angles before he wakes him up.

            He flops into the other one while Varric stretches awake. He grabs a tennis ball and lobs it onto the backyard. He closes his eyes against the setting sun as a cacophony of padding feet tear off after the ball. 

           “I wasn’t sleeping.” Varric says, not quite defensively, wiping drool off his face and blinking muzzily.

           “Suuuure.” He replies easily, hauling Daniel the three-legged pug into his lap and kissing him between his eyes. He’s got a day before he’s going to see Fenris again, the thought of which makes him smile until his face hurts, and he’s got ingredients to buy.

           “What’re you grinning at jackass?” Pepperoni comes awake on Varric’s lap with huffy sighs when he cracks his back and Hawke pries a slobbery ball, not the one he threw mind you, from Squiggles mouth and throws it again.

           “You, cutie.” He scrunches up half his face in an exaggerated wink and Varric puts a hand on his cheek demurely.

           “Oh you.”

           “Fenris just entered baking hell.” He offers after a minute and Varric smiles widely.

           “Excellent. When we leaving?” Varric stretches, Pepperoni yawning in his lap.

          “Soon as we get the dogs in.”


	13. Turtle Related Catastrophes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric hefts the sack of flour in his hand and looks at it, considering, and then looks at the woman. He starts to cock his arm back, only the have Hawke take the flour from him with a disapproving, slow nod. Varric holds up his thumb and pointer finger, about an inch of space between them and looks hopeful.  
> “No, not even a little bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been just awful and I'm not really happy with this but i'm super-duper tired of looking at it

 

 

            “You my friend,” Varric points an accusing finger at him “are ridiculous. Three different kind of tarts.” He shakes his head, shoving his hand back into a bag of hot cheetos. It crinkles loudly and Hawke sticks his tongue out at him while comparing honeycrisp apples.

            “Coming from you, that’s a compliment.” Hawke tosses the apple once, twice and then drops it into the bag with the other 6. He ties it, drops it onto Varric’s lap and moves over to the strawberries.

            Varric oofs and shifts the apples so they’re not directly on his balls. 

            “Ah yes, the age old technique of tossing an apple to see if it’s good or not.” Varric nods his head, like he’s seeing the undeniable wisdom in Hawke’s techniques, and strokes his chin thoughtfully.

            “Passed down from my mother’s mother’s grandma’s weird uncle.” Hawke replies sagely, sniffing a carton of strawberries and putting them back. He grabs another one, sniffs it, and hands it to Varric who incredulously eats a cheeto. He does the same thing with the blueberries and Varric positions them accordingly.

            “Don’t.” He says softly when Varric opens his mouth. He nearly tips the chart when he takes a corner too hard and Varric grins at him.

            “I would _never_.” He sniffs daintily and Hawke snorts as he gets up some momentum and rides the back of the cart down the baking aisle. A woman with a ‘can I speak to the manager’ haircut gives him a dirty diaper look. Varric flips her off with both hands as they zoom by, and she huffs disdainfully when their cart squeals to a stop. He grabs a few sacks of flour because he’s nearly out and more parchment paper and dumps them in the cart.

            Varric hefts the sack of flour in his hand and looks at it, considering, and then looks at the woman. He starts to cock his arm back, only the have Hawke take the flour from him with a disapproving, slow nod. Varric holds up his thumb and pointer finger, about an inch of space between them and looks hopeful.

            “No, not even a little bit.”

            “Aww, c’mon.” Varric says genially, offering him a winning smile. Hawke rolls his eyes and pushes the cart down the rest of the aisle. He can feel the woman’s eyes on him the entire way and he throws a wink and a friendly wave her way before he turns.

            Varric snorts a laugh and sighs “You should have let me. Imagine her face!”

            “And get kicked out of another Walmart? No thanks. 3 is enough.” He rides the cart to the booze aisle and grabs 3 six packs of root-beer beer, because it’s Varric and Aveline’s favorite, an apple cider for Merrill and hard lemonade for Anders. He thinks of the mostly empty bottle (jug) of vodka in his freezer and decides to stop by the liquor store on his way home.

            “C’mooon.” Varric wheedles, the charismatic bastard, chin on the child-holder part of the buggy. “4 for 4.” He smiles, encouraging, and despite his better judgment he’s almost tempted to let Varric bean a soccer-mom with a bag of flour. He doesn’t, which is what matters here, but he considers it.  

            “Nope.” He says, leaning his chest on the cart as he pushes it towards the socks. “I already have to drive 40 minutes out of my way; I am _not_ going to bump it up to an hour.”

             The last c’mooon is whispered and Hawke laughs while comparing horrible socks. He’s torn between the pair that’s fuzzy and lime green, the other that has what appears to be a Sasquatch on them and a pair that says ‘Super Owl’ and has an owl wearing a cape and mask.

            He drops the fuzzy socks in his buggy. “Shit. I forgot milk. Be right back.” Varric waves lazily after him as Hawke strides off.

            Hawke gets back with 3 jugs of milk to find Varric innocently perusing the variety of terrible socks. Hawke squints suspiciously at him but he has too many tarts to make and so little time to make them that he lets it slide.

            It’s after he’s checked out in a regular line (there was a long ass line for self-checkout), after Varric had thoroughly charmed their cashier (how does he do it?? He’s so damn charming) and they’re in the car that Varric makes it rain with 11 pairs of socks he’d stolen.

            Hawke throws his head back to laugh and rubs his stolen goods on his body. “I’m sock rich.” He exclaims gleefully, a family of 3 giving him a horrified look as they power past the grown man rubbing socks against his face and chest in a purple mini-van. Varric snapchats the whole thing, zooming in on Hawke’s ecstatic face.

            The drive to the Liquor Depot is uneventful; Hawke runs 3 stop signs, comes to a screeching halt in the middle of the road to avoid hitting a cat and pulls off the street to help a turtle cross the road.

             Varric watches Hawke sprint across the road in his neon pink tennis-shoes, warding off cars with both arms as the wayward turtle retreats back into its shell. He watches, Call Me Maybe blaring from the speakers of Hawke’s mini-van, as Hawke dashes into the middle of the road.

            There’s a cacophony of honks and angry people shouting out their windows as Hawke picks up the turtle with one hand and flips them off with the other.  He walks leisurely back across, to more honking and angry shouting, and jogs down the slope to a little creek not far from the road. He drops the hissing turtle in the water, wrinkles his nose at the trail of pee it had left and climbs back up to the van.

            “Shit.” Hawke laughs, breathless and a little sweaty as he climbs back in. Varric’s turned in his seat, grinning widely at him as the short line of cars start zooming by, _still_ honking.

            “Your ass looked amazing though.” Varric says, turning the radio down to a reasonable level. 

            “Thank you.” Hawke beams and pulls back onto the road. He makes it to the Liquor Depot without any further turtle related catastrophes and leaves with way more booze than he’d intended. He’s on a first name basis with all of the cashiers and the owners, Narie and Marie, give him free booze on his birthday.

            Varric twists open a bottle of rum before he’s even finished buckling up and takes a dainty glug. Hawke just shakes his head and buckles up while Varric holds the paper sack of alcohol in his arms like it’s a baby. He turns the radio up again and pulls out, Varric sipping rum out of a paper sack. They drive in companionable silence for about 20 minutes before Varric burps quietly. 

            “Classy.” Hawke shouts over the music, fingers tapping against his steering wheel to the beat of the music while he dances in his seat and belts out the lyrics.

            Varric throws him an exaggerated wink and salutes him with the bottle. “Always.”

            “We may be friends but I _will_ stab you.” Hawke says, jabbing a finger at Varric even though a smile jerks at the corner of his mouth.

            “What? You don’t want an always?”

            “I’m still mad that you made me read that book.” He pauses, taking the turn onto the dirt road that leads to his house. “I cried. Like a baby.”

            “You mad?” Varric chuckles under his breath and Hawke groans in pain as he pulls into his driveway. Merrill’s beat up bug is in the driveway next to Aveline’s Harley, which is next to a 67 cherry red mustang that Hawke’s never seen before in his life, but definitely wants to see for the rest of his life because damn. _Dayum_.

             He assumes it’s Isabela’s and wonders where she got it while hauling in his groceries. He gets everything in one go and Varric watches him from the porch, shaking his head in what he’s going to assume is admiration.

            “That is the sweetest car I’ve ever seen, Bela.” He sighs appreciatively after the screen door slams shut behind him. Dogs swarm his feet, rumps shaking, and he dodges puppy feet on his way to the kitchen. He sets his armfuls down on the counter and rubs at the angry marks left on his arms. Varric closes the doors behind him and plops down on the couch, still cradling the booze sack to his chest.

            It clinks loudly and he shushes it quietly.

             Hawke walks through kitchen door and is greeted by what appears to dinner. Merrill looks thrilled to bits, wearing his too big apron with a glob of something burnt and sticky in her hair.

            His favorite skillet holds something that might have been alfredo sauce, at one point. Now it’s sludge. His hopes are not high for the skillet. 

            “Should we leave you and the car alone?” Aveline asks, voice absent and mocking as she stirs something with a look of fierce determination on her face. It’s the alfredo sauce? And Hawke wonders if she knows there’s a streak of it on her cheek. And on her shirt. And splattered all over his clean stove. He knows better than to say anything about Aveline’s cooking, but his whole kitchen smells like burning and his poor pan has suffered grievously.

            “If you wouldn’t mind.” He starts emptying bags while Isabela reaches into the sack and pulls out a random bottle. It’s peach schnapps, which she takes a liberal chug of, and drops down next to Varric.

            “Just fixed her up.” Isabela says with stars in her eyes and Hawke makes an indecent sound low in his throat.

            “She’s gorgeous.” He croons, flicking the burner off when Aveline isn’t looking. He relieves Merrill of the spoon she’s clutching excitedly and gives her a gentle push towards the living room. Isabela offers her the schnapps and she reaches over to take the rum from Varric. Isabela pretends to wipe a proud tear from her cheek. Aveline scowls at the solid brick of noodles and jabs it with the spoon. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at Hawke expectantly.

             Her biceps are huge, almost as big as Hawke’s and she flexes menacingly as she waits. Or probably not but he really hates having to tell Aveline what’s wrong with her cooking because she always looks so disappointed in herself and it makes him feel bad.

            Hawke grabs two pot holders and sets the blob of burnt fettucine to side of the sink to let it cool and puts the skillet in the sink, so he doesn’t have to look at it. “Sooooo you need more than 2 inches of water to cook pasta? And also anything with milk has to be stirred almost constantly or it’ll burn.”

            The corners of her mouth tighten, but she nods while Hawke grabs a burning towel with tongs and drops it in the sink. He turns the water on and then flips the oven fan on. He checks the pantry and makes a sad noise when he realizes his pasta supplies have been severely depleted.

            “Pastas out, any other suggestions?” There’s a loud, unified groan of dismay from the couch.

            There’s a considering silence from the living and then: “Make me a dang quesadilla.”

            “A fantastic choice, Bela, quesadillas it is.”

            “We did much better than last time.” Merrill says consolingly, patting Aveline’s bicep and handing her a beer she must have snagged from the grocery bags when he wasn’t looking.

            “Think of it this way, no fire department this time.” He offers brightly, pulling ingredients from the fridge and tossing them onto the counter.

            “Okay, but think of it this way, no fire department this time.” Isabela counters and Hawke laughs while Aveline goes a viscous shade of red. “There are easier ways to see your man than to set Hawke’s kitchen on fire.”

            Aveline’s horrified spluttering and the sound of Varric choking on rum are worth his ruined pans.

 


End file.
